I’ve only just popped my sexting cherry.
I know.
What kind of a horrible, boring Gen Y-er am I? Didn’t my people found the Age of Sexting?
Maybe, but I was spooked by all the horror stories of revenge porn, The Fappening and kids getting into deep legal trouble for their n00dz.
So I stayed away.
‘Why bother?’ I asked myself. I have a good sex life, one certainly satisfying enough for me to not see how exchanging poor quality crotch shots could ever possibly turn me into some highly-evolved sex deity. (Wait, you mean that’s not one of your goals?)
But then life threw a spanner in the works of my love life’s well-oiled engine.
My partner and I were going to be apart for a combined four weeks.
Perhaps not a long stretch for some couples, but this was about three weeks more than we’d had in four years.
By week three, something had to give. I found myself plunging into the rabbit hole that is sexting.
Not because my partner begged and pleaded. Not because I was coaxed.
He didn’t even nudge me with an eggplant emoji. Sexting has just never been part of our groove.
But when a friend asked while we were geographically separated whether we’d been sending cheeky messages, she’d planted the seed.
I had the time, the curiosity and the unfulfilled desires to see what all the fuss was about.
And you know what? I’m glad I did.
Firstly, in the moment it actually does wonders for your body confidence, which can only be a good thing considering how rare that feeling is for so many of us.